Poetry Archives

  The rust of hours,
  Through a year of days,
Has dulled the edge of the pain;
  But at night
  A wheel in my sleep
Grinds it smooth and keen.

  By day I remember
  A face that was lit
With the softness of human pattern;
  But at night
  It is changed in my sleep
To a bygone carved in chalk.

  A cottage inland
  Through a year of days
Has latched its doors on the sea;
  But at night
  I return in my sleep
To the cold, green lure of the waters.